


Free Fire

by sweet_charmie



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Free Fire (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Explicit Language, Gun Violence, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, So yeah, and armie is a jerk and a pushover, timmy is a brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-06-25 10:19:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15638736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet_charmie/pseuds/sweet_charmie
Summary: 1976: Armie Hammer is a successful gun runner in Los Angeles, and he does what he can to protect his boy.





	1. Chapter 1

Armie saw him when he walked in. A tall boy in the middle of the dance floor, light reflecting off of his face, dancing with wild abandon. It was like there wasn't anybody else in the club. As Armie sat and ordered a drink, he watched the boy. He wore an orange shirt and white bell bottoms, and Armie chuckled to himself when he saw that the boy wasn't wearing shoes. Trying to bring back the last decade's hippie phase, he guessed. His hair was short and dark, bouncing all around his ears as he jumped and threw his head around. Armie was closer to him at the bar than at the door, and he saw that the lights were reflecting off of small flecks of glitter all over the boy's cheeks. 

Armie watched the boy. Every so often, he would stumble off of the dance floor to a table occupied by a girl with strawberry-blond hair wearing one of those denim skirts and a checkered vest, and he would try to convince the girl to dance with him, based on the gestures he was making. The girl always declined, and the boy always took a drink from a glass of something that Armie thought was probably Jack and Coke. 

Eventually, a slower song came on. Armie had been wanting to dance for several songs and, in his impaired mind, he saw no issue with seeing if the pretty boy in orange wanted to slow dance with him. Back then, Armie had no clue what way he swung. He grew up in a Catholic family and the threat of aversion camp lingered overhead, so he always said that he was straight. He liked women fine enough and he liked having sex with them, but he liked looking at men. He had never had sex with a man— he had been blown by men before, of course, but never anything penetrative— but this boy seemed like a fantastic place to start. 

Armie got up from his stool and went over to the table where the boy and the girl sat. The girl looked at him instantly and a smile curled onto her cherry-red lips. She was a pretty girl with a nice body, and Armie was flattered that she smiled. He was twenty-eight and six-foot-five. He was lean, with tan skin and blue eyes and hair that changed colors based on length: when it was shorter, it was darker; when it was longer like it was then, it was blond. He had a dark beard that was in fashion then, and he wore khaki pants with a black turtleneck and a blue suit jacket; his work clothes. 

He extended his hand silently to the boy, and the younger looked over at his friend with wide eyes. Quickly, he stood up and took Armie's hand, and Armie pulled him back to the dance floor. Armie remembered how to dance with someone and he put his hands on the boy's thin hips. The boy wrapped his arms around Armie's neck, then let out a giggle and moved so that his hands were on Armie's shoulders. The first thing he ever said to Armie was: "You're really tall." 

"I get that a lot," Armie said. "What's your name, doll?" 

"Tim," the boy said. Tim was a man's name. This boy was about as far as someone could get from being a man. 

"Tim," Armie said softly. It sounded nice, but it was entirely the wrong name for this boy. Armie looked down at him and saw dark makeup around his eyes and hints of red lipstick on his mouth. "Timmy." 

Timmy giggled again and pressed his face into Armie's chest. "What's your name?" he asked. 

"Armie," he replied. 

Timmy smiled. "So we're using fake names," he said. "In that case, my name's Daniel." 

"That's my real name," Armie insisted. "Really, it is. And you're not a Daniel; you're a Timmy." 

"Thank you," Timmy giggled. This boy was doing a lot of giggling. Was he young or just high? 

"How old are you, Timmy?" Armie asked. 

"Nineteen," Timmy replied easily. "And you?" 

"I'm twenty-eight," Armie said. 

Timmy pulled one hand down against Armie's chest and he traced small circles around each nipple as if he knew exactly where they were. "So, you're probably married, huh?" Timmy asked dejectedly. "Got a puppy on the way, right? And you're very stressed about that and you want someone— not your pregnant wife— to fuck. Right?" 

"Not at all," Armie said. "You sound like you know a lot about that." 

Timmy tilted his head. "That's the only kind of people who sleep with me," he said. "Closeted guys." 

"I just got too busy with work," Armie explained. "Started working when I was twenty and it's been nonstop." 

"Where d'ya work?" Timmy asked. 

Armie hesitated. "In sales," he provided quickly. "Ya know how it is." 

"No, actually, I don't," Timmy said and raised his eyebrows. "Never had a job." 

"What do you do to afford little white bell bottoms?" Armie asked and tugged on Timmy's belt loop. Timmy smiled. 

"My sister sends me money," he said. "She feels bad for me." 

"Why would she do that?" Armie asked. "Feel bad for you, I mean." 

"My parents sent me to aversion therapy," Timmy explained. "Like, a summer camp, but one of those evil ones like in a slasher flick or somethin'. My sister tried to get me to not go, but I was forced to go, and she kinda blames herself. She sends me money every month so I can keep my apartment and stuff. And buy little white bell bottoms, of course." He giggled again. 

Armie wrapped his arms around Timmy's waist and pulled him close so that their chests touched. "Let's stop shooting the shit," he whispered in Timmy's ear. "My place or yours?" 

"Yours," Timmy whispered quickly. He shifted to get Armie's head out from his neck and he made to kiss him, but Armie placed a finger on Timmy's lips. 

"Not here," he said softly. "Not in front of other people." 

"Why not?" Timmy whimpered. His bottom lip was pouted out and Armie sighed. No matter who it was, the stupid puppy-dog face always got him. 

"Because this bar has 'no fags allowed' rule," Armie said. "Or, at least, that's what everybody here thinks. You just moved out here, didn't you?" 

"What made it obvious?" Timmy asked. 

"The gay clubs are private little places," Armie explained. "You gotta know someone to get in or even find them. This is by no means a gay club." 

"Oh," Timmy stuttered. "Okay. So, your place?" 

Armie nodded, and a faster song began to play. Timmy's entire face lit up like a Christmas tree, and he gasped. "I love this song!" he exclaimed. "One more dance, Armie, please?" 

"Go ahead," Armie chuckled. "I'll be right back." He left Timmy with a soft pat on his ass, and he walked back over to the bar. He paid for his tab as quickly as he could, but the bartender was taking as long as possible. Armie took the time to examine the girl that Timmy knew and probably came with. She was looking at Armie and, when their eyes met, she quickly looked away and sipped at the straw in her drink. The brief moment of eye contact seemed to startle her. Armie was suddenly anxious; did she know who he was? Who did she know? Who had he sold to recently that had a little blonde girl with them? 

Timmy came bounding over to Armie and clutched his arm. His forehead and upper lip were shiny with perspiration and he was breathing hard. He was buzzing with energy, though— he had probably taken some club drug. Armie tried to stay away from the hardcore stuff, weed was enough for him. If Timmy was a stella, though— someone who liked going to clubs and going dancing— he obviously liked some harder stuff. 

Armie didn't realize how drunk he was until he and Timmy got outside. Timmy skipped ahead of him, drunkenly singing some Bee-Gees record that had played in the club, and Armie kept his eyes on that firm ass. There wasn't a lot to ogle at, but Armie was practically salivating. He needed that boy that very instant. 

He caught up to Timmy and dragged him into an alleyway, and he pressed Timmy against the bricks. Timmy giggled; he seemed to know full well what Armie wanted. His hands went to Armie's pants and he expertly undid the button and pulled down the zipper, and he fell to his knees. It was dark in the alley and Armie couldn't see worth a shit, so he gasped rather loudly when Timmy put him into his mouth. 

By Armie's count, it had been four weeks since he had done anything sexual. It wasn't for a lack of trying, though. Nobody was ever willing when Armie was. Except for Timmy. 

Armie's hand fumbled around in the dark for a moment before he found Timmy's hair, and he pulled hard. The simple sensation of pulling someone's hair, controlling them like that, was enough for Armie, and he just enjoyed the impression of Timmy. He was good at this, and Armie had to wonder how someone so young was so skilled at sucking cock. 

He forced out a warning before he came, and he heard Timmy spit a few moments later. Armie pulled Timmy to stand up and he crashed his mouth to Timmy's. Timmy panted into the kiss, his hands clawing at Armie's biceps. "Good job, doll," Armie whispered as he broke the kiss, and, almost as if he had done it before, placed his lips on Timmy's jaw and licked up to his ear. Timmy let out a gorgeous, breathy moan. 

Timmy turned in Armie's grip and pressed his ass against Armie's waist, and Armie's heart jumped. He had never had sex with a guy before and he honestly didn't want his first time to be in an alley. Armie wrapped his arms tightly around Timmy's waist and kissed his neck, and he whispered, "I'm not fucking you in an alley." 

"Armie," Timmy whined. His voice was higher and breathy and he pressed back firmly against Armie. "Armie, please." 

"Hush now, doll," Armie whispered. "I'll fuck you good when we get to my apartment." 

As he promised, when they got to Armie's apartment, Armie pushed Timmy onto the bed. He kissed Timmy as his hands fumbled on his pants, and Timmy helped kick them to the floor. He was very quickly naked under Armie and Armie chuckled. He had beautiful, soft skin that Armie wanted to lick forever. He had almost no hair anywhere, all shaved down, and it made him look so much younger. Timmy was such a baby. "Baby," Armie whispered and sucked on Timmy's nipple. 

Armie whispered baby and doll and Timmy whispered Armie's name. When everything was said and done, Armie held Timmy close to him and kissed the back of his head, and Armie whispered, "What's your name, doll?" 

"Timmy," he laughed. 

"What is that short for?" Armie asked. 

"Timothée," he whispered. "It's a big name and I don't like it." 

"Timothée," Armie whispered and kissed the younger's neck. "Timothée. That's a good name. Sophisticated." 

Timothée moved out of Armie's grip and began to dress again. "I'll call you," Timothée said as he pulled his orange shirt over his head. "I'd like to do this again. Maybe when I'm not as drunk." 

"C'mere," Armie said and took Timothée's wrist, and he tugged him back over to him. He kissed Timothée softly, and he whispered, "I'll make sure that this isn't a one-time thing."


	2. Chapter 2

Two Years Later 

Armie woke up to the sound of someone singing. It was distant, on the other side of the apartment, and Armie knew that his doll was in the kitchen, probably making breakfast. He laid on his back for a few minutes, trying to hear what Timothée was singing, but he couldn’t make out any words, only the melody. 

Armie sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes, and he slipped out of bed. He found his pajama pants on the floor where they fell the night before and he tugged them on. The thin fabric felt nice against his sun-warmed skin, and he remembered. It was the first day of July in Los Angeles; the heat would be unrelenting. 

He walked to the kitchen, and he listened to Timothée sing. Timothee loved music and loved dancing, and that went right along with singing. He was an amazing singer, but he only ever sang when he was alone; he claimed that he was bad at it. Armie recognized the song as an ABBA song that Timothée had been listening to on repeat. Armie leaned against the doorway for a few moments as he watched his lover in the kitchen. 

Timothée wore the blue striped top to the bottoms that Armie wore, along with a pair of white briefs. He was dancing around the kitchen as he buttered a slab of toast, a plate on the counter with sliced peaches on it already and a mug of steaming coffee off to the side. Armie smiled at the breakfast: Timothée didn’t drink coffee, so, at the least, he had made Armie coffee that morning. 

”Look at that,” Armie said, and Timothée gasped in shock. Armie smiled and entered the kitchen, and he put his arms around his lover. ”You made breakfast! What’s the special occasion?” 

”Nothing,” Timothée giggled. He giggled a lot instead of laughing or chuckling, but Armie knew that it was because Timothée was just a very feminine boy. Armie loved the contrast: he was a big, burly man, and Timothée was his soft baby. ”Just felt like spoiling you.” 

”Oh, baby,” Armie mumbled and leaned down to kiss Timothée. ”You don’t need to spoil me.” 

”I know,” Timothée smiled. ”But you do so much for me, I wanted to do something for you.” 

”You do things for me,” Armie insisted. 

”Like what?” Timothée asked. 

”You let me fuck you from behind,” Armie said and kissed Timothée’s lips. ”Even though you don’t like that. You let me do a lot of shit to you that you don’t like.” 

Timothée smiled. ”There’s, umm, actually something else,” he said and Armie playfully groaned. 

”What is it?” he asked. ”Anything you want, doll.” 

Timothée took a deep breath. ”I wanna come with you tonight,” he said. ”I wanna be with you and see you like that.” 

”No,” Armie said immediately. ”No. Out of the question, absolutely not.” 

”Arms!” Timothée cried. He shifted out of Armie’s embrace and put the toast down onto the plate. He sighed and said, ”It’s not like I’m asking to shoot the guns or anything! I just wanna be there!” 

”How am I supposed to explain who you are?” Armie asked. ”I can’t say that you’re my lover, ’cause the people I sell to don’t take too kindly to people like us. Not only that, but it’s dangerous being there. Baby, you really don’t get it: you could get killed and I can’t do that, I can’t have that on my conscience.” 

”I’ll be fine,” Timothée groaned. ”You’re making a big deal out of nothing! If shit goes south, I’ll just book it out of there. I’m not stupid, I know how to protect myself. Shit, I know I seem like a bimbo, but I’m not.” 

”I’m not calling you stupid, baby,” Armie said and quickly pulled Timothée back into his arms. ”Just the opposite. You’re so smart, babe, you have to know the risks and everything that goes with this.” 

”Okay, stop kissing my ass,” Timothée mumbled. ”I’m not gonna stop bothering you about this, ya know. I’m gonna keep asking you, and asking you…” He sighed dramatically. ”And asking you.” 

”Okay,” Armie nodded. ”That’s why you made breakfast? To try to win me over?” 

”That wasn’t the whole plan,” Timothée admitted. ”I was gonna suck you off and swallow it, but I guess I’m not gonna do that now.” 

”You can still do that,” Armie said quickly. ”I would never pass up that opportunity.” 

Timothée gave Armie a sidelong glance, and he said, ”No, not anymore.” 

”Baby,” Armie whined. ”Please?” 

”Eat your breakfast,” Timothée said. ”I’m gonna go shower.” 

Armie tightened his embrace. ”I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he said softly. ”If you got hurt, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. I’m doing this to protect you.” 

”Get off of me, ” Timothée grumbled and moved out of Armie’s grip. 

Armie sighed. Timothée was so gorgeous and Armie loved him to pieces, but he was so obviously raised in the sixties because he had a strong opinion about everything. When Timothée got upset or angry about something, Armie knew it. He groused endlessly until he got his way and Armie knew that he was completely whipped for this boy because he always did whatever he could to make his doll happy and not gloomy. 

”Tim,” Armie said softly and took his lover’s hand. He pulled the small boy back to him and kissed him softly and when their lips parted, Armie whispered, ”You can come with me. If you keep your mouth shut and you dress decently, you can come.” 

Timothée smiled. ”Groovy,” he said and kissed Armie again. ”What time?” 

”Maybe ten or eleven,” Armie said. He had fallen victim to the sad eyes again. ”But I'm serious. One word out of your mouth and that’s it.” 

”Sure, sure,” Timothée said flippantly. ”Love you, babe.” 

”Timmy,” Armie began and took the elastic of his briefs in his fingers and tugged his lover back to him. ”You’re only coming because I have no control when you look sad.” 

”I know,” Timothée giggled. ”That’s why I got all sad, ’cause I know you can’t control yourself. That was my plan the whole time.” 

”You fuckin’ brat,” Armie grumbled and grabbed Timothée’s waist tightly. He quickly pulled Timothée up onto his waist and wrapped his thin legs around his hips, and he pressed a firm kiss to his lips. ”I hate you sometimes.” 

”You don’t hate me,” Timothée said with a smile. ”You just hate that I have so much control over you. That’s all your fault, by the way.” 

”I know,” Armie groaned. He placed Timothée back on the floor and said, ”Thanks for breakfast, sweetheart.” 

-

Timothee’s favorite item of clothing was his white bellbottoms. He had multiple pairs and wore them nearly every day. He knew that those pants would occupy his bottom half, and he briefly wondered about his top half. Armie’s words rang in his head— ”dress decently”— and he knew that it would be best if he wore a simple dress shirt. Over the few years, Timothée had helped Armie get ready for various deals, so he knew the dress code well. 

The dress code was a big thing. Armie was a notorious gun runner and high on the chain of command of the gang he served. Armie was expected to act and dress a certain way, and that extended to Timothée, but Timothée usually had a hard time following the code of conduct. It wasn’t that he was intentionally rebellious— he was, but that wasn’t the point— but rather it was that he couldn't remember all of the rules. As Armie’s boyfriend (Armie always cringed when someone called Timothée his boyfriend because that was a fairly juvenile term and their relationship was far from juvenile), he was treated the way a woman would be treated. He was treated as something for Armie to flaunt, for the other men to eye and praise for his beauty. He was an object to the other members of the gang, as were the other women. The women rejected him, though, because he was male, but the men rejected him because he was feminine. Despite all of this, because of Armie’s rank, he was expected to be polite to everybody, especially the men who pinched his bottom when Armie wasn’t looking. 

Timothée had asked Armie about his life before the gang. Armie never said much other than ”I was fifteen when I joined”. When Timothée was fifteen, he was dating a girl and trying to focus on passing the tenth grade. He grew up in New York City, where gangs existed, but he never had any desire to join them. Timothée could never get a straight answer out of Armie on why he joined the gang or what the recruiting process was like. He had heard gossip that certain gangs, especially out on the West coast, required recruits to kill someone, but he was sure that Armie had never done that. 

Then, Timothée began to wonder. What would happen if he didn’t dress decently? What would Armie do if he wore something right, something colorful, something obviously gay? It was the sexual nature of their relationship that Timothée was punished regularly, but the punishments were little things: being gagged or not being allowed to come, nothing that would actually cause him any harm. Armie cared about him too much to actually hurt him. Usually, the punishments were not enforced, or, rather, forgotten about. 

”Armie!” Timothée called. No answer. Maybe he hadn’t heard. ” _Armie!_ ” he yelled louder. 

”I’m right here, doll,” Armie said and emerged from the bathroom. He had his pants on and his unbuttoned shirt on, displaying his golden chest. He had a comb in his hand and his hair was haphazardly combed back. 

”Okay,” Timothée began. ”So, hypothetically, if I didn’t dress decently, what would you do?” 

”There is no ’hypothetically’, Timmy,” Armie said firmly. ”You’re _going_ to dress decently.” 

”But what if I don’t?” Timothée asked with narrowed eyes. 

”If you don’t,” Armie said thoughtfully. He hummed as he considered it, then decided. ”No sex.” 

”For how long?” Timothée asked with a singular raised eyebrow. 

”Depends on the severity,” Armie said. ”The worse you dress, the longer the drought will be.” 

Timothée scoffed. ”You couldn't survive a day without sex,” he said and rolled his eyes. He grabbed a yellow polo from the closet and tugged it in, and he found that it was one of Armie’s. He began to tie and knot in the front to make it shorter, but Armie clicked his tongue in disdain. 

”No,” he said and approached Timothée. He untied the knot and pulled it back down, and Timothée huffed. 

”Why not?” he asked. 

”Your stomach was showing,” Armie explained. ”Wear it normally, tuck it in, or were a different shirt.” 

”Jesus Christ, you’re so controlling,” Timothée grumbled, but he tucked in his shirt anyway. 

”I’m just trying to protect you, doll,” Armie shrugged. He shook his earn out in front of him to check his watch, and he said, ”We gotta go.” 

”Wait,” Timothée said and took Armie’s hand. ”Kiss me?” 

Armie smiled at Timothée. ”Now, Timmy,” he began softly. ”You know we don't have time for that.”

”For one kiss?” Timothée whined. 

”It’s never one kiss with you,” Armie said. He placed his hands on Timothée's waist and pulled him in close. ”You always want more than that.” 

”I want it, but that doesn’t mean you have to give it to me,” Timothée replied smoothly. He put his hands on Armie’s chest. 

”Yeah, but then you’ll get all moody and pouty,” Armie said. 

”And you can’t resist pleasing me,” Timothée smiled. 

”We already know that,” Armie chuckled and gave Timmy a sweet kiss. Timothée’s hands shot up to Armie’s head and tugged on those lovely blond tresses, and Armie dragged Timothée to the bed. Timothée hummed in satisfaction as Armie pushed him down, and he pulled out of the kiss. 

”We should go,” Timothée whispered. 

”No, no,” Armie said. ”We have time.”


	3. Chapter 3

”Remember what I said,” Armie began. Timothée hadn’t been paying attention to where Armie drove, but now they were in a lot with an abandoned warehouse a ways away. In the streetlights, Timothée could see several people standing around by the warehouse. ”Not a single word. Even if someone talks to you, you don’t answer them. Keep your fucking mouth shut.” 

”Goddamn, alright,” Timothée mumbled. He snapped his gum and unbuckled his seatbelt, and Armie’s hand shot out to grasp his wrist. 

Silently, Armie reached over him to the glove compartment, and he opened it to reveal a pistol and a small revolver. He took the pistol in his hand and sheathed it in the waistband of his pants, and he carefully passed the revolver to Timothée. ”I don’t expect you’ll need this,” he began. ”But if someone pulls out a gun, pull yours out too. I’m not having you look like a pussy.” 

Timothée held the gun in his right hand. ”If someone shoots…” he began softly. ”And you get shot… What should I do?” 

”Don’t worry about me,” Armie instructed. ”Keep yourself safe. Someone points a gun at you, point yours at them. You ever shot a gun before?” 

Timothée shook his head quickly. When he was eleven, his father had taken him hunting— Timothée assumed that it was to introduce a masculine pastime to him. He had been too scared to even hold the gun. 

”Hold it with your dominant hand,” Armie said softly. He reached over to Timothée and fixed his hands on the handle of the gun as he spoke. ”Support with non-dominant. This gun doesn't have a lot of kickback, but it still has a little, so be prepared for that. It’ll knock you back a bit. Don't be afraid of it. That’s the important thing about guns, you can’t be afraid of them.” 

Timothée looked over his lover in the moonlight coming through the windows. He looked so professional with the gun tucked in his waistband, almost like he was born with a gun in his hand. ”When was the first time you shot a gun?” Timothée whispered. 

”I was four,” Armie said. He was distracted by checking his watch. ”Dad taught me how to defend myself.” 

”Four,” Timothée mumbled. The gun felt heavy in his hands. ”Right.” 

”Do you wanna stay here?” Armie asked. ”You don’t have to be right up there, in the action. If you’re uncomfortable—” 

”C’mon,” Timothée said and threw the car door open. He stepped out, his shoes making a soft click against the rain-slick cement, and he listened to the car creak and shudder as Armie got out. He tossed the keys over to Timothée, who quickly put them in the pocket of his coat. He insisted on wearing his little fur coat that night— fake fur since he loved little furry animals too much— because it made him feel badass like nothing could hurt him. 

”Timmy,” Armie said softly. He went around the car to be in front of Timothée, and he said, ”I don’t use my real name. If you have to speak, call me Ord. If someone asks for your name, it’s Nic. Okay?” 

”Okay,” Timothée said softly. ”Kiss?” 

Armie looked over his shoulder to the tiny group of men several hundred yards away. Armie could barely see what they were doing, so he felt pretty safe giving Timothée a quick kiss. He leaned down and kissed Timothée softly, lingering for a little longer than what was best. ”I love you,” Timothée whimpered. 

”I love you too, doll,” Armie whispered. He gave Timothée’s hand a firm squeeze, then said, ”I know I’m being hard on you tonight, but my whole career rides on this deal. I’m dealing with Guadagninos tonight. A prominent Italian gang. If their leader doesn’t like me for any reason, the deal goes away and bad things will happen. I’m trying to protect you, doll, the lifestyle we have, everything. Okay? This is important.” 

Timothée nodded quickly. Armie nodded and let out a heavy breath, then turned and began to walk towards the men. Timothée followed close behind. 

”Sorry I’m late!” Armie announced as he approached the men. Timothée eyed all of them: clean-looking men with dark hair and tan skin, wearing gold jewelry and smoking cigarettes. ”Hate when people are late.” 

One man stood at the front of the group. Tall and thin, a curly mop of salt and pepper hair on top of his head. ”It is not a problem,” he told Armie and shook his hand. ”You are Ord?” 

”The one and only,” Armie said with a charming smile. ”I’m sorry to do this, but I need to check for wires. Gotta make sure nobody’s spying on us.” Armie turned his head to Timothée and clicked his tongue, and Timothée’s heart jumped. Searching for wires couldn’t be hard, right? 

Timothée carefully gave every man a pat-down, and they all started leering at him in Italian. Timothée had a cursory understanding of Italian, but he really didn't want to know what they were saying about him. Then, he got to the older man, the one in charge. As he lowered himself to check the man’s legs, he chuckled. ”Is this your boy?” the man asked. 

Armie floundered. Should he tell the truth? Would the leader be upset with the answer? Armie cleared his throat. ”Yes,” he said finally. 

”You have him trained well,” the leader said with a smile. He looked down at Timothée and took his hand to help him stand up. ”Call me Luca. What’s your name, darling?” 

”Nic,” Timothée answered after a moment of hesitation. 

”Dear Nicolas,” Luca said and kissed the back of his hand. ”He treats you well, yes?” 

Timothée’s mouth opened and closed as he glanced over at Armie. ”Yes sir,” Timothée said slowly. ”Very well.” 

”Good, good,” Luca said. ”Enough of the small talk; now, we see the weapons.” 

”Of course,” Armie said. ”If you’ll allow me…” He walked ahead of the group and into the warehouse, and they all followed him. 

Luca offered his arm to Timothée, and he said, ”You are very young. What are you doing in this business?”

Timothée took Luca's arm and walked with him. ”Ord,” he began. ”We’ve been together for a few years. To be honest, I begged him to let me come tonight.” 

”Lucky you convinced him,” Luca said. He spoke with an Italian accent that Timothée found endearing. ”Someone like you is a good thing in this business: very young, very sexy. Ord has already convinced me to buy from him because he brought you. It shows he has pride in you, and I want to buy from a proud man.”

”Oh,” Timothée gasped. ” _Signor_ Guadagnino, thank you.” 

”Ah, you speak Italian?” Luca asked. 

”Not very well,” Timothée admitted. ”I took a course in high school but nothing much came from it. I couldn't hold a competent conversation if I wanted to.” 

”But you know the proper modes of address,” Luca said. ”Not only are you beautiful, but you have quite a mind. Ord is a lucky man.” 

”Thank you, sir,” Timothée said and let out a giggle. ”Ya know, I was told not to speak.” 

”What a shame,” Luca said. ”It’ll be our little secret.” He winked, and Timothée giggled again. 

By now, they were in the warehouse. The temperature had dipped as they entered and Timothée was grateful that he had his coat. Wooden crates were gathered in the middle of the floor, and Armie went and stood by them. ”We have a friend on the inside,” he began. ”Swiped these from the fuzz, no skin off anyone’s nose. Never used, no prints.” 

Luca put his arm around Timothée. ”You can stop the sale, Ord,” he said. ”We have your money. Young Nicolas convinced me.” 

Armie glared hard at Timothée. ”Oh, he did?” he asked. ”And what did young Nicolas say?” 

”That you are a proud man,” Luca said. ”Proud of your lover and your job. We want to buy from a confident man, and you are our man.” 

”Many thanks, Mr. Guadagnino,” Armie replied. 

”In fact, Nicolas is a rare man,” Luca continued. ”So young, but such beauty and such a mind.” He paused, then said, ”Throw him in and you have yourself an extra thou.” 

Timothée shifted away from Luca. He had several problems with being exchanged for money, and he knew that Armie valued him over the mighty dollar. 

”I’m sorry, but my lover is not for sale,” Armie said smoothly. 

Luca paused and examined Timothée. ”Come visit often, will you?” he asked. ”I could use your company.” 

”I will,” Timothée said softly, and he rose up and gave Luca a kiss on his cheek. 

”If you’ll forgive me,” Luca said, shaking his hand out at Armie, and he leaned down and softly kissed Timothée. He was a good kisser and, for a moment, Timothée forgot who he was kissing. He completely melted into Luca’s body and his hands balled up into fists when Luca’s tongue pressed into his mouth. Timothée would go as far as to say that Luca was a better kisser than Armie. When Luca pulled away, Timothee’s bubblegum was now in his mouth, and Timothée stared down at Luca’s chest. ”You have a good boy,” Luca said and rubbed Timothée’s back. 

Armie’s face was neutral, but the tips of his ears were red. He was pissed. Timothée knew how jealous Armie got, especially when he tried to dance with someone else at a club or showed any sexual desire for someone that was not Armie, and he knew that Armie was beyond jealous that Luca had kissed him like that. 

Luca’s men began to load the wooden crates into an awaiting van, and Luca retrieved a brown paper bag from one of his men. ”The money is there, as promised,” Luca said. ”Send your boy over every so often.” 

”I’ll be sure to do that,” Armie said. The money exchanged hands, and Timothée felt relief flood his body. It was over and done with. 

Armie opened the bag as Luca walked over to his men and began to speak to them in Italian, and Armie’s ears grew red again. ”Mr. Guadagnino,” he called and closed the bag. ”You seem to be missing a few thousand.” 

”I am, am I?” Luca asked. He approached Armie and Timothée again, and he said, ”Check again. I am never wrong.” 

”I don't need to check,” Armie said. ”I was promised ten grand, and I’ve only got seven. So, if you kindly pass over the remaining three grand, we can all be on our way.” 

Luca locked eyes with Timothée. Before Timothée could say anything, Luca had pounced on him and wrapped his arm around his neck. Timothée gasped, prepared to scream, but he heard a gun cock right next to his ear. ”Leave with the seven and your boy,” Luca said. ”Or take the ten and your boy comes with us.” 

Armie looked from Timothée to Luca to the gun, and he pulled out his own. He cocked it, the sound echoing across the empty warehouse, and he said, ”I’m supposed to bring back ten grand to my boss. But I’m not leaving Nic to you.” 

”Doesn’t your job take precedence over your boy?” Luca asked. ”You can find other lovers, but this job is special. It seems like the solution is easy.” His arm tightened around Timothée’s neck, and Timothée gasped. 

”Please, please,” Timothée whimpered softly. ”Ord, please.” 

”Isn’t begging a beautiful sound?” Luca asked. He pressed the gun further into Timothée’s head and it scared him so much that he kept his mouth shut. 

Armie set his jaw, and he looked over Timothée. His shirt had come untucked and a sliver of his stomach was showing. His hair was ruffled up, his cheeks red, his eyes watery. Armie wanted to embrace him, to show Timothée that he truly loved him and that he was sorry that any of this happened. ”I’ll take the seven grand,” Armie said. 

Luca pushed Timothée away from him, and Timothée stumbled into Armie’s chest. ”Pleasure doing business with you,” Luca said. Armie put his arms around Timothée and held him tightly. The gun was still acutely trained on Luca. Armie’s gun followed Luca as he went to the van and got into the back. 

”Oh!” Luca called. ”Treat him well. Won’t you, Armie?” 

The van pulled away and escaped the warehouse, and Armie put his gun back in his waistband. ”Are you okay?” he asked Timothée. 

Timothée shook his head and sniffled. ”I’m so sorry,” he whimpered. ”If I hadn’t come, that wouldn’t have happened, I’m so sorry.” 

”Don’t be sorry,” Armie said quietly. ”It’s not your fault.” 

”He knew your name,” Timothée said. ”He called you by your name.” 

”Yeah,” Armie nodded. ”I’m sure they have people watching us. They probably know everything about us.” 

”Are we in danger?” Timothée asked. 

Armie looked down at his Timmy. The tip of his nose was red as he cried and he looked just hopeless. Armie hugged him tightly and pressed a firm kiss to his short, curly hair. ”Yes.”


	4. Chapter 4

”Oh, baby, stay for five more minutes!” 

Armie chuckled and kissed Timothée again. ”I have to go,” he said. ”I have a meeting.” 

Timothée tugged on Armie’s collar with one hand, his other hand occupied by a cigarette, to make Armie lean down, and he captured his lips in a kiss. He would have advanced it, but Armie pulled away. ”Armie,” Timothée whined. ”Skip the stupid meeting. Stay here with me.” 

”And do what?” Armie asked. He knew full well what Timothée wanted to do, but he wanted to hear it come from his lover’s mouth. Armie was greedy when it came to loving Timothée like that, and he wanted to hear every sound and see every second of it. He loved hearing Timothée admit that he wanted to be fucked. 

”We can go to the movie theatre,” Timothée began. ”There’s a movie out that I wanna see. Or we can go to lunch or go to a museum, we can do lots of things that are more fun than a dumb meeting.” 

”You don’t wanna do anything else?” Armie asked. ”Anything more… Scandalous?” 

”Well, shit, I always wanna do that,” Timothée giggled. He took a drag on his cigarette and he said, ”But I thought we could do something more fun, more… I dunno, couple-y!” 

”I’ll take you out to dinner,” Armie said and kissed Timothée’s cheek. ”After the meeting. Sound good?” 

”Armie!” Timothée whined. 

”Timmy,” Armie replied lowly. ”I can’t blow off this meeting. It’s about what to do with the Guadagninos, how to keep us safe. If I skip this, there are no more movies, no more clubs. We can't go out, because we won't know where the Guadagninos are. Okay? I have to go.” 

Timothée straightened his stance. ”Well, then, I wanna come too,” he said. ”It’s about _our_ safety, not just yours. I have a right to be there.”

Armie sighed. ”I can’t argue with that,” he said softly. ”Go get dressed, doll.” 

Timothée emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later wearing his trademark white bell bottoms and a blue shirt. ”Foxy, as always,” Armie said, and Timothée smiled. ”C’mon, doll, let’s go.” 

During the drive, Armie’s hand twitched on the gear shift. It seemed like he wanted to do something, like hold Timothée’s hand. Timothée knew Armie well and he knew when Armie was nervous because he would start fidgeting. He would start looking around and his hands would twitch. Usually, a cigarette calmed him down.

”Arms,” Timothée whispered and placed his hand on Armie’s thigh. ”Calm down, sweetheart. This meeting is safe.” 

”I know it is,” Armie said. ”But, if you remember, the last time I brought you to work, a gun ended up on your pretty head.” 

”Want a fag?” Timothée asked. He pulled out a carton of cigarettes that Armie always kept in the center console and the lighter, and he smiled at the lighter. There was a cut-up Polaroid taped to the lighter that had Timothée’s face on it. 

”Got any grass?” Armie asked. 

Timothée searching in the center console and clicked his tongue. ”Nope,” he said. ”Gotta restock.” 

”Yeah, gimme a cig,” Armie mumbled. Timothée lit Armie’s first and passed it to him, then lit up his own. The cigarette dangled out of the corner of Armie’s mouth as he drove. ”Jesus Christ, I hate California.” 

”Why?” Timothée asked. He rolled down the window to let the smoke escape, and hot summer air flooded the car. Armie’s car was older— probably a ’70 or ’71— and the air system couldn’t keep up anymore: in the summer, the air conditioning wasn’t cold enough and, in the winter, the heat wasn’t warm enough. Timothée insisted that Armie get a new car— new Pontiacs didn’t run for very much— but Armie had some wild connection to the car, and he said that he would never sell it. Timothée saw it as stubborn; Armie saw it as resourceful. 

”It’s too fuckin’ hot,” Armie mumbled.

Timothée glanced over at his lover. Sweat was visibly collecting on his forehead, and he reached over and played with Armie’s beard. ”Maybe if you shaved, you’d be cooler,” he said. ”That’s why I shave.” 

”What do you have to shave?” Armie smiled. ”The four hairs on your upper lip? Your nonexistent chest hair?” 

”I shave,” Timothée said defensively. ”I shave down there. Do it every night.” 

”You should grow that shit out,” Armie said. ”When I eat you out, it feels weird on my face.” 

”I don’t like my body hair,” Timothée mumbled. ”I barely have any in the first place, so, like, what’s the point? And I’m a twink, twinks don’t have body hair.” 

”Well, I like your body hair,” Armie said. He reached over and tickled Timothée’s thighs, and Timothée giggled. ”Grow it out for me, please?” 

”Fine,” Timothée chuckled. 

Soon, they pulled into an apartment complex. Timothée knew that Armie’s gang operated mainly out of Santa Monica and that he commuted from Los Angeles mostly every day. He was never sure where in Santa Monica it was, but his questions were answered. He studied the apartments: all run-down, kids playing with a soccer ball in the street. It was dirty and grungy, and overall the perfect place for a gang to be. Armie parked in one of the spots, and Timothée got out of the car, still smoking his cigarette. 

He watched the children play. When he was little, probably seven or eight, his mother had put him into soccer and he had loved every minute of it, except for the locker rooms. His teammates always teased him for being gay— this was before Timothée even knew that he was gay— and for being small and skinny, and they would whip him with their towels. After a moment, the children turned to him and stared at him, almost expectantly. Timothée smiled and slipped out of his clogs, and he gestured for them to kick the ball over. 

One little boy kicked the ball to Timothée, and he quickly kicked it up and began to juggle it on his knees. Dust and mud pressed into his white pants as he did this, but he didn’t care. He bounced it high, then hit it off of his head, back towards the kids. 

Armie took his hand, but Timothée protested. ”You go on,” he said. ”I’ll be in soon.” 

Armie looked at the kids, then back at Timothée. ”You have your gun, right?” he whispered. 

”Jesus, they’re kids,” Timothée hissed. 

”But the Guadagninos could be anywhere around here,” Armie said. 

”You’re making a big deal out of nothing,” Timothée scoffed. The ball was kicked to him and he wedged his foot under it and picked it up. He placed it on his head and balanced it, and he said, ”But, yes, I have it.” 

Timothée kicked the ball back over to the kids, and Armie kissed him. ”Be safe, doll,” he said, then gave him a parting pat on his ass. 

Once Armie was safely inside the apartments, a boy called to him, ”Who was that?” 

”My boyfriend,” Timothée said. 

”You’re a chick?” the boy asked. 

”I’m a boy,” Timothée replied and cracked a smile. ”I just like dating boys.” 

”Oh,” the boy said. ”I’m a boy and I like dating girls.” 

”Groovy,” Timothée smiled. ”What’re your names?” 

”Christian,” a boy said. ”And that’s Harper—” he pointed at a little blonde girl. ”And her brother, Ford.” Ford was hiding behind Harper, staring at Timothée with wide, blue eyes. ”What’s your name?” 

”Timothée,” he replied. 

”You’re good at soccer,” Christian said. ”How long have you been playing?” 

”I played when I was your age,” Timothée said. ”But I haven't played in a while. There aren’t too many opportunities to play football in adult life.” 

”Football?” Christian asked. 

”My parents called it football,” Timothée shrugged. ”My dad lived in Europe for a long time.” 

”How old are you?” the little girl, Harper, asked. 

”I’m twenty-one,” Timothée said and scrunched up his nose. ”I’m pretty old, huh?” 

”I’m four,” Harper said. ”Ford is two.” 

Timothée nodded. ”So, umm,” he began. ”Why’re you guys here? Your parents… Work here?” 

”Mommy works with Mr. Stuhlbarg and Mr. Hammer,” Harper said as if she had been forced to memorize it. 

”My dad holds the really big guns,” Christian said. ”Why’re you here?” 

”My boyfriend,” Timothée began and gestured up to the apartment that Armie had disappeared into. ”He works here.” 

”Who’s your boyfriend?” Harper asked. 

”His name is Armie,” Timothée said softly. ”Umm, Armie Hammer.” 

Harper’s entire face lit up. ”You’re Timmy!” she cried. ”Mommy says Mr. Hammer talks about you all the time!” 

Timothée laughed in disbelief. He seemed something of a celebrity to this girl. ”I guess he does,” he chuckled. ”What does your dad do, Harper? Does he work here too?” 

”Mommy says my daddy isn’t good for nothing,” Harper said matter-of-factly. ”She said that Daddy wants nothing to do with us.” 

”Do you and Ford have the same daddy?” Timothée asked. ”My sister and I have different moms, but the same dad.” 

”Same mommy and same daddy,” Harper said. Then, she turned to her brother. ”Say something, Fordie!” 

”Hi,” the little boy mumbled into his sister’s pink pants. 

Timothée bent down towards the ground to be less intimidating, and he said, ”I won’t bite, Fordie. I’m nice, I promise.” 

Ford’s eyes went from his sister to Timothée; if Timothée didn’t know any better, he would have said that Ford looked a little like Armie. Ford made his way out to Timothée and examined his face, and Timothée quickly discarded his cigarette. It was mostly ash at that point, anyway. 

Timothée heard a door open, and he looked up to see Armie standing in the doorway of the apartment that he had disappeared into. ”I gotta go,” he told the children. ”Have fun, guys.” 

He stood up and brushed his pants, trying to get rid of the dirt stains. Another pair of pants ruined. He stepped back into his shoes and made his way up the stairs to Armie. ”Your pants are dirty,” Armie said as a greeting. Timothée knew how Armie got around the other members and that this way of treating him didn’t mean that he loved him any less; he had a reputation to uphold. 

Timothée didn’t reply. He entered the apartment to find it full of cigar smoke and he held in his coughing. Armie put a hand at the small of his back and walked him further into the apartment, and Armie took a seat in an empty chair at a table full of smoking men. ”I apologize for Timothée,” Armie said. 

”No apologies needed,” a man said. Shorter and plumper with short, dark hair, a cigar in his mouth. Michael; to Timothée, it was Mr. Stuhlbarg. ”Never needed with a face like that.” 

”Now that he’s joined us,” Armie said. He pulled Timothée down into his lap rather harshly, and he put a hand in-between Timothée’s thighs. ”You were saying, Michael?” 

”The Guadagninos have a spy,” Michael began. ”Someone from their side has infiltrated us. They hear our conversations, see our every move. I’ve checked everybody who’s in this room now and we’re all loyal. Your apartment is not safe anymore. We’re certain that they’ve wired it. You need to move. Ya dig?” 

”Yes, sir,” Armie said. After a moment, he nudged Timothée in the ribs. 

Timothée nodded quickly. ”Yes, sir,” he mumbled. 

”We have an apartment lined up for you here in Santa Monica,” Michael continued. ”Closer to us. We’re sure that they wired your car as well, so…” he paused and reached into his jacket pocket, then tossed something across the table to Armie. A car key. ”Happy Hannukah; we got you a car.” 

Armie nodded and pocketed the key. Timothée knew that Armie was upset about having to get rid of his car, but it was best not to voice that. 

”Take your car to a junkyard,” Michael instructed. ”The one on South Street. Your new car will be waiting there for you.” 

Timothée was quiet as Armie drove to the junkyard. ”You okay?” Armie asked. He reached over and took Timothée’s hand, and the younger sighed. 

”Yeah,” he mumbled. ”Just… Who’s the spy? I don’t feel safe anymore and you promised me that I would always be safe.” 

”We don’t know who the spy is,” Armie said. He chuckled, then said, ”Hell, for all we know, it could be you.” 

Timothée giggled. ”Don’t be ridiculous,” he smiled. ”If I was the spy, I would’ve hit in the head with a gun already. You’re a lot to deal with.” 

”Oh, I am?” Armie chuckled. ”What about you, Mr. I-Have-To-Get-My-Way-Or-I-Start-Pouting?” 

”You love when I pout,” Timothée chuckled. 

Armie tightened his hand on Timothée’s. ”I do.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there’s some smut in this :)

Armie passed the joint to Timothée. ”A lot of memories here,” he sighed. It was the last night in that Los Angeles apartment and all of their belongings were boxed up in the living room except for their moving clothes, pillows, and the mattress. 

”Yeah,” Timothée nodded. ”The first time you saw a man naked was here.” 

Armie rolled his eyes. ”You didn’t have a lot of firsts with me,” he mumbled. He readjusted the pillow below his head and rolled onto his side to better see Timothée in the moonlight. He traced his finger along Timothée's smooth chest, and Timothée blew a mouthful of smoke at Armie. ”What was one first you had with me?” 

Timothée pressed his lips together as he thought. ”First time I said ’I love you’,” he said softly. ”And really meant it.” 

”When’s the first time you meant it?” Armie asked.

Timothée sighed. ”Honestly?” he said softly. He refused to look at Armie. ”Pretty recently. It was, umm… My birthday a few months ago. You danced with me all night and kissed me in front of everybody. I really only said it to keep you around so you’d have sex with me, but… You were drunk and you kept blathering about how cute I was and how much you loved me, and I just thought… ’Shit, I actually love this guy’.” 

It hurt Armie to hear this. He knew what kind of person Timothée was before they met— he slept around and partied daily— and he had suspected for the first few months of their relationship that Timothée didn’t love him. Armie frequently slept around as well, but he had never been as attached to anybody before. He still remembered the first time Timothée said it; looking back, Armie wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t meant it. They had been having sex and he had breathlessly cried it out as he came. Now that he thought about it, that was the only time Timothée ever said it— up until his twenty-first birthday. That night, he was giggling and kissing Armie, and he had whispered it in Armie’s ear relentlessly. After that, he said it all of the time. 

He hummed softly. ”But you mean it now?” he asked. 

Timothée took a drag on the joint and rolled onto his back. ”’Course I mean it now,” he said. ”It’s been two years.” 

”Just checking, doll,” he said. ”For the record, I didn’t mean it the first time either. You said it, and I said it back because… Ya know, I felt like I had to. When someone tells you that they love you, you can’t just respond with ’okay’ or something.” 

”Says who?” Timothée asked. 

”It’s, like, a rule of dating!” Armie chuckled. ”You have to say it back!” 

”Not really,” Timothée said. He passed the joint back to Armie, and he added, ”You can just say ’I appreciate that, but I’m not ready to say it back’.” 

Armie shook his head. ”See, that comes off as…” he began. 

”Comes off as what?” Timothée chuckled. ”Rude or something?” 

”Just a little unappreciative,” Armie shrugged. ”It’s common courtesy to say it back.” 

”You’re buggin’,” Timothée sniffed. ”Come here and kiss me.” 

Armie quickly stubbed out the joint and pulled Timothée on top of him. He captured his mouth in a slow kiss as Timothée shifted to have Armie between his legs. Timothée moaned softly into Armie’s mouth, and Armie took handfuls of Timothée’s ass. Timothée giggled and rolled his hips down Armie’s, and Armie groaned. ”Again?” he asked, and Timothée laughed. 

”Yeah,” Timothée said. ”Or are you too old to do it again?” He smiled at Armie, and Armie set his jaw. 

He turned them so that he was on top of Timothée, and he pressed Timothée’s hands above his head. ”Call me that _one_ more time,” he seethed. 

”What?” Timothée replied cheekily. ”Old?” He smiled with his tongue between his teeth, and Armie let out a heavy breath. 

”You can smile and bat your little eyelashes all you want,” Armie whispered. ”But you’re gonna pay for that shit.” 

”Oh, whatever,” Timothée rolled his eyes. ”You’re not scary.”

Armie lowered his hand down Timothée’s body and grabbed his thighs, and he opened the younger’s thin legs. He kissed Timothée’s neck as he lowered his hand further and began to rub the pad of his finger against Timothée’s entrance. Both of them hated teasing, but Armie knew that it was a good way to punish him. Timothée took in a soft gasp at the feeling and whispered, ”Arms, baby, please no teasing.” 

”Well, you have to learn how to act right,” Armie said softly into Timothée’s neck. Timothée was squirming underneath him, whining, trying to get any semblance of pleasure, and Armie carefully licked his neck. ”You want my finger? You want it, doll?” 

”Yeah,” Timothée nodded quickly. ”Please, Armie.” 

Armie hummed and quickly kissed Timothée’s lips. ”Are you gonna be good for me if I do this?” he asked. 

”Yeah,” Timothée gasped. ”I will, I promise.” 

Armie kissed Timothée again and he brought his hand back up to Timothée’s perfect lips. Timothée knew what to do and he brought Armie’s thin fingers into his mouth. ”Good boy,” Armie whispered, and his other hand wrapped around Timothée’s cock. He was already hard and leaking pre-cum, and Armie used his thumb to spread it across his head. Timothée moaned against Armie’s fingers, and Armie pulled them out. ”Do you have anything to say?” he asked. 

”Fuck me, Armie,” Timothée panted. ”Please. Now.” 

Armie placed a kiss to Timothée’s lips, and his hand fell back down to in-between Timothée’s legs. He nudged the tight ring of muscle softly, then slowly pushed in. Timothée let out a quiet moan, his leg coiling around Armie’s waist. Armie kissed his neck and softly sucked on the skin as he pushed his middle finger in slowly. He knew that, no matter how many times they had sex, the first penetration always hurt the most, so Armie always kissed him slowly at first to help ease the pain. 

Timothée groaned. ”No,” he mumbled. ”Want your cock.” 

”It’ll hurt,” Armie warned him softly. 

Timothée took handfuls of Armie’s hair and tugged hard. ”I don’t care,” he breathed. ”Now.” 

Armie chuckled. Timothée was so needy. He retired his finger and took Timothée’s legs in his strong hands. Timothée shifted to better get his leg over Armie’s shoulder— their favorite position— and Timothée whispered, ”Hurry up.” 

”Give me a second,” Armie whispered and began to stroke himself to get himself fully hard. Timothée watched greedily, his bottom lip slotted in-between his teeth. Finally, Armie groaned softly, and he took Timothée’s hips. He guided himself in, then let his instincts take over. 

Animals. That’s what they were. They both had instincts that controlled them, and the animalistic side of Armie came out once he was inside his lover. His body felt the velvet walls of Timothée’s insides and his brain was telling him to fuck, to wreck, to ruin. Timothée was different; his animal instincts told him to submit, to let the person dominating him do whatever they wanted. Armie grunted into Timothée’s neck and Timothée moaned into Armie’s ear, and that spurred Armie to fuck him harder. He was motivated by Timothée’s sounds of pleasure— he wanted more, more, more.

By the end of it, Armie had red scratches up and down his back and Timothée had too many hickeys to count. Timothée urged Armie to lay on top of him and Armie declined at first, but Timothée wrapped his spindly legs around Armie and kept him where he was. Armie held Timothée tightly, and he kissed the top of his head. ”Love you,” Armie whispered. ”I mean it.” 

Timothée giggled. ”Love you too,” he whispered back. ”Mean it.” 

-

The new apartment was nicer than the old one. Hardwood floors and nicely painted walls surrounded them and Armie’s furniture fit in well. He had always been a simple guy, not giving into home decor fads, so all of his furniture was a solid neutral color, grey or a sand color. He had given Timothée full reign over the bedroom decor, and he chose a soft green comforter and white sheets with beautiful artwork covering the walls. 

In addition, the bathroom was tailored for Armie. The showerhead was higher on the wall so that he didn’t have to crouch down to wash his hair, and the bathtub was larger to accommodate his shapely body. Timothée liked taking baths, so Armie knew that he would be thrilled by this. 

Armie was collapsed on the bed, tired of moving in all day. The age gap definitely showed then; Armie was almost asleep, while Timothée was still up and bounding around, fixing crooked artwork or adjusting the blankets. ”Timmy,” Armie said. ”C’mere, doll.” 

Timothée slumped down onto the bed with Armie, and he took a healthy drag on his cigarette. He was always smoking; if he wasn’t smoking, he was chewing gum. ”Yeah?” he asked. 

”Just lay down with me,” Armie said. ”It’s almost midnight.” 

”I’ve got too much energy,” Timothée said. Then, his eyes lit up and a smile curled onto his pink lips. ”Don’t you wanna do something? New apartment. Seems like we oughta christen the bed… Or the couch… Or the kitchen counter.” 

”Jesus, sugar,” Armie chuckled. ”We had sex twice last night. That's not enough for you?” 

”No,” Timothée said. ”See, I love your cock. I love it. I want it all of the time. I want it in my mouth, in my hand, inside of me.” He crawled on top of Armie and began to kiss his neck. Armie cursed Timothée; his neck was his sweet spot. ”If I ever have to go a day without seeing it or feeling it, I might die.” 

”Oh, you wanna see it?” Armie asked. ”That’s fine. Go ahead, take off my pants.” 

Timothée giggled and slotted the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and he began to work on Armie’s blue jeans. He pulled them down to his thighs, then inched his boxers down. Timothée smiled at the sight of Armie’s cock, already half-hard at Timothée’s gentle touch, and he said, ”Sure seems like you’re ready to go.” 

”You just gonna stare at it or are you gonna suck me off?” Armie asked. 

”I can’t suck you off, I got a cig,” Timothée said. ”I love your cock but not enough to get rid of a half-smoked cig.” 

Armie nodded. ”Take off your pants,” he said softly. Timothée was quick to get rid of his shorts, little red things with a white stripe up the side, and Armie chuckled when he saw the lack of underwear. ”Not wearing underwear,” Armie smiled. ”Naughty boy.” 

Timothée giggled and removed the cigarette from his lips. ”Kiss me,” he told Armie. He sat up immediately and hugged Timothée close and he crashed his lips to his lover’s. Armie was quick to get rid of Timothée’s shirt, as was Timothée with Armie’s shirt. Armie took the cigarette from Timothée’s fingers and took a puff, and Timothée smiled. ”You’re so sexy,” he whispered. 

”Back at you, doll.” 

They didn’t have sex. Even though they were animals, they knew that two nights in a row was asking a lot. Armie held Timothée as he slept, and he pressed gentle kisses to the younger’s head. Timothée ran his hand along Armie’s forearm and he hummed softly as he drifted off to sleep. 

Armie fell asleep soon after Timothée, but he slept restlessly. He dreamt of Timothée getting hurt over and over, different scenarios each time. When he would wake up from a dream, he found that he would be clutching Timothée so tightly that he was probably cracking a rib. 

At one point, Armie woke up after a particularly violent dream, and shivers wracked his body. He felt off; something was wrong. He slowly removed his arms from Timothée and found his boxers on the floor by the bed. After he pulled them on, he went into the drawer of the bedside table and pulled out his pistol. He sent a glance to Timothée, to make sure that he was still asleep, and he crept out of the bedroom. 

The floors creaked under his weight. He listened intently for other creaks that didn’t come from him, and he stopped dead when a clinking sounded. The radiator? Armie slinked over to the wall and searched for the light switch for a moment, then flicked it on. 

Immediately, he brought his gun up. A man was stood at the coffee table, seemingly waiting for Armie. Tall and thin with salt and pepper hair. ”Mr. Hammer,” Luca Guadagnino said smoothly. 

Armie was at a loss for words. Michael promised that they were safe. Was there anybody else in the apartment? His mind went to Timothée all alone in the bedroom. He was ripe for the taking. ”Who else is here?” he asked. 

”It is just us—” 

”Is Timothée safe?” Armie asked. Luca didn’t answer. ” _Is Timothée safe?_ ” he repeated, louder and more forceful. 

”I have a man waiting by the window,” Luca said. ”He won’t move unless I tell him to. So, you stay in line, and your Timmy is safe. Lower the gun, Armie.” 

Armie slowly lowered his arms and he carefully reaches forward and placed the gun on the coffee table. ”Your turn,” he said. ”Give up your weapons.” 

”I have no weapons,” Luca began. 

”You have a gun, at the very least,” Armie snapped. ”Give it up.” 

Luca slowly pulled the gun out from his jacket and placed it on the table next to Armie’s gun, and he said, ”Go get decent. I’ll be waiting here.” 

Armie glanced around the room and he said, ”We’re both men. You came here in the middle of the night for a reason; what is it?” 

”I came to bargain,” Luca said. ”You’d have to be stupid not to know how important our purchases are to you. I’ve come up with an idea— a trade. Hand over your boy and you keep my business.” 

”Why do you want Timothée so badly?” Armie asked. ”He’s just a man. He’s not particularly special or anything. He’s got a nice face, but he’s a brat. You don't wanna deal with him.” 

”He is special,” Luca said. His eyes flicked to behind Armie, and he said, ”He is the most special boy I ever knew.” 

Armie began to turn to see what Luca was looking at, but he was hit in the head with the butt of a gun before his eyes could focus. It looked like Timothée.


	6. Chapter 6

Adrenaline coursed through Timothée’s body. He had just hit Armie in the head with a gun. He felt regret almost immediately, but he had to do his job. ”Jesus, coulda warned me that you’d come around tonight,” he snapped. ”I tried to fuck him. What woulda happened if you came in while we were screwing?” 

”You know what I would have done, baby,” Luca said. He reached out for Timothée and took his free hand and he softly kissed Timothée’s lips. 

”Would’ve joined in, huh?” Timothée giggled against Luca’s lips. He pulled out of the kiss and looked down at Armie on the floor, and he said, ”Is he awake? He’s not moving.” 

Luca reached into his pocket and withdrew a walkie-talkie, and he pressed a button on the side of it. He pocketed it again, then pulled Timothée flush against his body. ”Two years,” Luca whispered. ”It’s over.” 

”It’s over,” Timothée nodded. ”Am I still your pet?” 

”No, no,” Luca said. ”You’re my second-in-command. You carried this out flawlessly. You deserve a reward.” 

Timothée smiled and asked, ”When do I get this reward?” 

”As soon as we are home,” Luca said. ”You can wait that long, can’t you?” 

”I don’t know,” Timothée sighed. ”I might die without your cock.” He chuckled and leaned forward, and he kissed Luca again. 

Lies. Timothée and Armie’s entire relationship was built on lies. Timothée was being truthful when he said that he went to aversion camp, but that was really the only truth. Timothée had become involved with the Guadagninos when he was sixteen, not much older than Armie was when he became involved with the Stuhlbargs. At first, Timothée was just the assistant. He brought money home to his parents and that’s all that they cared about. 

Then, he turned eighteen. Luca took a special interest in him, and he gave Timothée extra money every time that he did _something_ for Luca. Soon, money stopped exchanging hands and Timothée was willingly spending the night. He had promised himself to Luca long ago, and he swore to do whatever Luca wanted him to. 

Luca devised a plan. His main competitor was a gang in California headed by a man named Stuhlbarg, and he needed to find a way to keep that gang from rising up. Luca knew how irresistible his baby was, and Timothée came to the forefront of Luca’s masterpiece: infiltrate the gang, make Michael fall in love with him, then kill him. In the wake of his death, Timothée would have been named the head of the gang, and he would have torn it down from the inside. It was a perfect plan. 

Then, a snag hit. Michael was married. There was no way in hell that he would go for Timothée. At this point, Luca had already relocated his gang from New York to California, so there was no way to go back on the plan. They had to find another way. 

And another way was found. Timothée was out partying with Luca one night when he spotted a tall, bearded man from across the club. Timothée recognized him from files on Stuhlbarg’s employees, and, later that night, Luca informed Timothée that this man was Armie Hammer. He was practically the second-in-command for the Stuhlbargs, even if that wasn’t his official title. Timothée was smitten immediately, and the new plan formed: kill Armie Hammer. 

It was an excruciating wait. Two years was a long time to wait to kill somebody, but Luca wanted to be sure that Armie really did love and trust Timothée. His loyalty was tested the night of the gun deal, and Luca decided that night that it was the perfect time to strike. He set the attack for a week after the gun deal. 

Timothée got dressed as Luca had his men bring Armie’s body down to an awaiting van. Luca complimented Timothée on the red shorts with a white stripe up the side that he had worn earlier that night, and Luca wrapped his sweater around Timothée. He liked seeing his baby wearing his clothes. In fact, he liked it so much that he had Timothée wear only the sweater as he fucked him on the couch. 

Timothée sat in the back of the van with Armie as they drove to Los Angeles. He had a firm grip on his pistol, ready to shoot when Luca gave the okay. He had been waiting for two years to kill this man, he could barely wait any longer. His finger twitched dangerously. 

Finally, Armie moaned softly. His hand came up to clutch his head, and his eyes peeled open reluctantly. ”Timmy?” he mumbled. 

Timothée shushed him. It was no use hiding the gun. ”It’s okay,” he whispered. 

”Are you okay?” Armie asked. 

”What do you remember?” Timothée asked. 

Armie swallowed thickly. He looked around and saw the back of a beat-up old van, lit by a single light. His legs were tied together and one arm was handcuffed to the wall of the van. He wore only his underwear and he had no weapons. ”Not a lot,” he mumbled. ”I remember Luca broke in, and…” He trailed off, noticing Timothée’s lack of restraints. He wore a gray sweater that hung over his shoulder and no shoes, a deadly pistol in his right hand. His lips were bruised, his ever-present piece of chewing gum in his mouth. He looked fucked. He was calm and collected; not shaking like the last time he held a gun. It was obvious to Armie that he had no control anymore. Timothée was in control. ”And you.” 

Timothée smiled. ”And me,” he said. He shifted uncomfortably and Armie was prepared for him to start bawling, to drop the gun and run over to him and start to remove the restraints. Instead, he said: ”Fuck, these seats are too hard. Hurts my ass.” 

”Timmy,” Armie began slowly. Little by little, the pieces were falling into place. Timothée was the spy. He was the accomplice. This gorgeous boy with a smoking body and a bossy attitude was trying to destroy him. ”How long?” 

Timothée snapped his gum. ”Two years,” he said. He rolled his eyes and said, ”I’m surprised it took you this long. I thought you were so smart.” 

Armie tried to pull his arm from the wall, but the handcuffs just clinked loudly. ”Don’t even try,” Timothée giggled. ”Those handcuffs came straight from the fuzz.” 

”How?” Armie asked. 

”Liz Chambers,” Timothée said slowly. ”You don’t think that she sold to only the Stuhlbargs, did you? She sells to anyone who nerds firepower. That gorgeous little boy of hers, Ford; why, he’s already looking promising.” 

”Don’t you touch a hair on that boy's head,” Armie seethed and tried to lunge for Timothée, but he was held back. 

”I think I touched a nerve,” Timothée smiled. ”Didn’t I… _Daddy_?” 

”How do you know—” Armie began and Timothée laughed. 

”It’s been my job since the first day to know everything about everyone in the inner circle,” Timothée said. ”When I saw that Liz recruited you when you were fifteen and she was seventeen, I knew something more was going on there. You got a little gang-girl pregnant, didn’t you? And you joined the gang to help provide for the kid. But that was sixteen years ago. I really only suspected you had kids until I met them the other day. Harper looks just like you. Four and two; you haven’t been in their lives at all, have you? Have you ever even met Ford?” 

”Did you ever love me?” Armie asked. 

”Not even a little.” 

The van slowed to a stop, and Timothée stood up. ”We’re here!” he announced, and the van doors flew open. He jumped out of the van and embraced the tall Italian man, and jealousy burned in Armie’s stomach as their lips crashed together. Luca pulled away and smoothed his thumb down Timothée’s cheek and Timothée smiled at him. He used to smile at Armie like that all of the time. 

Luca swept Timothée up into his arms and he carried him inside the house like a groom carried his bride on their wedding night. Armie saw no reason to fight against the men taking him out of the van; they all had guns. 

Timothée smiled widely as Luca set him down on the couch. The house was massive, a result of the power and money that Luca possessed, and Timothée had missed living there. ”I missed you,” Timothée said and reached out for Luca’s hand. ”Are you coming to bed tonight?” 

”I will,” Luca told him. ”I have to take care of Mr. Hammer first.” 

”Wait,” Timothée started urgently. He scrambled for the right words and he finally said, ”Don’t kill him.” 

”Why not?” Luca asked. ”That is why we did this, to kill him.” He paused, then laughed. ”Don’t tell me you are actually in love with him.” 

”No, babe, that’s not it at _all_ ,” Timothée said. He rose up on his knees to match Luca’s height and he placed his arms on Luca’s shoulder. ”Just… We can hold him for ransom. Get some money from Stuhlbarg. Anyway, I wanna be the one to kill him. Don’t you think I deserve that?” 

Luca passed his fingers along Timothée’s pouty bottom lip. ”You deserve the world, _mio amore_ ,” he said softly, and he leaned forward and kissed Timothée. Timothée’s hands curled in Luca’s hair and they shifted so that Timothée’s legs were coiled around Luca’s waist. ” _Ti amo_.” 

” _Ti amo_ ,” Timothée echoed. The kiss broke and Timothée pressed his forehead to Luca’s. ”Never make me do something like that again. I’m yours; not anyone else’s. I don’t wanna act like anything else ever again.” 

”You won’t have to,” Luca said. 

-

Timothée rolled in bed. Silken sheets slid across his skin and he snuggled into the back of the man that he loved. Timothée had a thing for older men; first, Luca, who was twenty-six years his senior, and then Armie, who was eight, almost nine years older. Timothée preferred Luca to Armie. Luca was almost fifty, so his libido was obviously not where Timothée wanted it, but he made up for it by buying Timothée whatever he wanted. He certainly had enough money to do that. He was the one to buy Timothée’s first car. 

Timothée opened his eyes. Luca’s dark and freckled back was facing him, the older snoring lightly. Timothée felt right at home curled up next to Luca, but his heart hurt. It hurt for Armie. 

Watching Armie in the back of the van the day before made Timothée realize something that he hadn’t wanted to admit to himself. He loved Armie. When the feeling first came around, Timothée had convinced himself that he only loved Armie for the sex. It was hard to deny it, though; he was in bed with the wrong man. He had been so caught up in acting like he loved Armie that he had actually fallen in love. And now he was supposed to kill him. 

Timothée slipped out of bed and pulled on Luca’s sweater, and he found his shorts by the bed. He didn’t bother trying to fix his hair as he grabbed his gun and slipped into the waistband of his shorts. Technically, he wasn’t allowed anywhere without either Luca or a guard, but Luca was such a pushover that Timothée just had to bat his eyelashes and ask nicely, and Luca would do whatever he wanted him to do. That gave him the freedom to wander around the opulent house as he pleased. 

He had helped design the plan, and he knew that Armie wasn’t being fed. He was being kept in the dark basement with no food and only a little water. Timothée felt horrible that he was forcing Armie to do that, so he swung by the kitchen and made him a sandwich. He had learned to cook for Armie, and Armie's favorite thing to eat was a BLT. He carried the sandwich and a bottle of water downstairs. 

Timothée got to the room where Armie was being kept, and he set the food down on the guard’s desk. He put a finger over his lip in an effort to keep the guard quiet, and he motioned for the lights in the room to be turned on. ”Don’t tell Luca,” Timothée smiled. He leaned down and softly bit the guard’s ear and he whispered, ”There might be something in it for you if you keep this secret for me.” 

Timothée watched through the crack between the ground and the door as the light flicked on, and he heard Armie groan. Timothée slotted the bottle of water under his arm and unlocked the door, and he carefully entered the room. ”Hey, Arms,” he whispered. He closed the door behind him and sat down in front of Armie. He looked terrible: he was covered in bruises and his eyes were red from exhaustion. His beard was gone. He had been clean-shaven. Timothée felt remorse wash over him; Armie was proud of his beard, and it was him that told the guards to shave it off. 

Armie spat at Timothée, but his mouth was so dry that only a small splatter of saliva came out. ”Fuck you,” he said. 

”Armie,” Timothée whispered. ”I’m so sorry. I… I don’t know what to say to make it up to you.” He offered the food to Armie, but he turned away. ”Armie, I’m truly sorry. I’m such a shithead, I’m the one who should be killed. I… I didn't mean anything I said.” 

”Yes, you did,” Armie said. ”But it’s okay. We all say stupid things when we’re doing our jobs, don’t we?” He sighed. ”How long have you worked for them?” 

”Five years,” Timothée whispered. ”I didn’t know any better. I became involved with Luca and everything just spiraled and all I could see was blood and diamonds and champagne, I… I just didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I got so caught up in his lifestyle that I didn’t stop to think that… You have two kids. If I kill you, I’m taking two wonderful kids’ father away. My dad was there, but he was distant. He might as well have not been there. And, Armie…” His voice broke. ”Look at me, Armie, please.” 

Armie raised his eyes to Timothée. He was crying and sniffling and he looked so damn pathetic that Armie just wanted to hold him and make him feel better. No; this was the man who was trying to kill him. This was the man that had spied on him for years. 

”I love you, Armie,” Timothée whispered. ”I mean it, I really do. I…” He trailed off, unsure of what else to say. ”There were times that I forgot about my job and I imagined that we were together for real and that, in some Supreme Court miracle, we could get married and have a family and…” he sniffled and wiped his eyes. ”I knew about Harper and Ford before I even met you, and I dreamt about helping raise them.” 

Armie took in a deep breath. ”I met Liz when I was fourteen,” he said softly. ”We were just friends. She was this badass chick and she talked about being in a gang all the time. She was so proud of it; it was a part of who she was. I turned fifteen and we started… Fucking around, ya know. I got her pregnant. She suggested that I join the gang to support her and help make the pregnancy easier and, because I was wrapped around her finger, I did it. Initiation wasn’t crazy, I didn’t have to kill anyone, but I had to rob someone. I… I held my dad up at gunpoint and robbed him. I was kicked out after that. They tried to send me to a military academy or something, but it never worked out. Liz lost the baby after about three or four months, and… I stayed with her. Fuck, I was fifteen and my girlfriend had a miscarriage, what was I supposed to do?”

He paused. Then: ”We kept trying to have kids. Once we were in our twenties, we tried for real. Nothing worked. Finally, four years ago, she got pregnant. Harper was born in December, and she was just the cutest thing I ever saw. I loved her to death. Liz didn’t see how much I loved her because she kept finding ways to have her not be around me. She was always having a playdate or at daycare or at her grandmother’s house. Finally, when Hopsey was two or so, I confronted Liz about it, and… I was drunk and I was angry, and I hit her. She left me immediately and, five months later, I got a letter in the mail that my son was born. That night, I had a deal, and I went out to a club after and… That’s the night I met you. I’ve met the kids before— Liz brought Hopsey and Ford to every meeting— but I don’t think that they know I’m their father. Ford definitely doesn’t know, and I don’t think Harper remembers me.” 

Armie glanced over Timothée, his wet cheeks, and puffy eyes. He hated himself for still loving the way Timothée looked when he cried. ”I thought you were an angel,” he said softly. ”That you were coming to save me or some stupid shit like that. That’s why I… Why I loved you so much. You’ve distracted me from my real life and how much it sucks, and I… Now, you’re just trying to kill me.” 

Timothée wiped his face on the sleeve of the sweater. ”Armie,” he whispered. ”I’ll get you out of here. You can go and have a real life with Liz and Harper and Ford, and I’ll never bother you again. You can just forget about me.” 

”I can’t fucking forget you,” Armie snapped. ”You are the love of my whole goddamn life, and I’m just supposed to move on? To forget you? Bullshit.” 

Timothée pushed the food into Armie’s hands. ”Please eat,” he whispered. He leaned forward and contemplated kissing Armie, but he didn’t have to do much. Armie leaned forward as well and kissed Timothée’s lips once, twice, three times, and Timothée started crying harder. ”I’ll get you out of here,” he whispered. ”We’ll run away from here. We’ll be safe.”

”I love you,” Armie whispered. ”I mean it.” 

”I love you back,” Timothée whispered. ”I mean it too.”


	7. Chapter 7

”Luca!” Timothée cried from the bathroom. ”Come here, pretty please!” 

Timothée watched himself in the mirror as he heard Luca walking across the bedroom and when he saw the older man grace the doorway, he clutched his stomach. ”Do I look fat?” he asked with an extra-pouty lip. 

”Not at all,” Luca replied easily. He wrapped his arms around Timothée and kissed his shoulder. ”You look beautiful as always.” 

Timothée groaned. ”I think I gained weight,” he mumbled. 

”Why is that a problem?” Luca asked. ”You look like every other stella out there.” 

Timothée turned to face Luca, tears forming in his golden eyes. ”I just wanna be pretty for you,” he said softly. ”If I look like every other guy out there—” 

”No, no, you misunderstand, _mio amore_ ,” Luca said quickly. ”You have the same body shape, but not the same face. You have a special face, darling, a gorgeous face. You’re not like everyone else.” 

Timothée squirmed out of Luca’s arms. ”No, you said it!” he sobbed. ”I’m not special at _all_! You said I look like every other man out there!” He stormed out of the bathroom and slumped down onto the bench by the window. ”I spent two years trying to please you, trying to make you want me, and you think I’m ordinary!” 

Luca came and crouched down next to where Timothée was sat. ”My darling, you are not ordinary,” he said and took Timothée’s hand. ”You are special. You are gorgeous and you are smart— nobody else could have come up with that plan, not even me. You deserve to be in charge. Is that it? Do you want more control, more influence?” He snapped his fingers, and said, ”Done! You’re next in line, it is up to you. My darling, darling boy.” He kissed Timothée’s legs softly, but Timothée just huffed and crossed his arms. 

”I want Armie dead tonight,” he said firmly. ”I want to be the one to pull the trigger. He tortured me for two years, I think it’s fair that I get to do the same to him for a few hours.” 

”Anything you want, darling,” Luca said. ”You get the gun.” 

”I want us to be alone,” Timothée continued. ”Nobody else down there. Just me and him.” 

”Done,” Luca agreed. ”Can I ask why?” 

Timothée hesitated. ”I’m gonna say some things,” he said finally. ”And I don’t want you to hear it. I don’t want anyone to hear it. You’ll think badly of me.” 

”Anything you want, darling,” Luca said. 

Timothée extended his hand downwards, and he stuck out his little finger. ”Pinkie promise?” he asked. 

Luca hooked his little finger with Timothée’s and he said, ”I pinkie promise. I just hate seeing you sad.” 

”Everybody does,” Timothée said with a smile. 

-

Armie waited in the dark. He had no concept of what time it was or if it was night or day. All that he knew was that, despite the food Timothée gave him, he was starving. 

Armie has thought long and hard about Timothée. He was fully prepared to hate Timothée for the rest of his life and then some, then he came down, sobbing and saying that he would help him escape. Armie had reevaluated every part of their relationship— all of the sweet things that Timothée told him and had done for him— and he tried to figure out why Timothée had suddenly changed sides. Was it because he truly loved Armie? He had said that he had meant it, but Armie had a hard time believing anything out of Timothée’s mouth anymore. He could be playing him, manipulating him to think he was back on his side. Timothée was good at manipulating people— the pouty lip was the best example of this. He always looked so innocent and broken when he was pouting and Armie would always do whatever he could to make that pout go away. 

The lights flicked on in the room and Armie groaned involuntarily. Everything was too bright, even though there was only one lightbulb in the room. The lock on the door snapped as it was opened, and the door swung open to reveal Timothée. He carried a pistol and a dark bag over his shoulder. He silently moved into the room and sent a glance over his shoulder, then closed the door behind him. He threw the bag at Armie and said, ”Get dressed.” 

”Gonna let me have a little decency when you kill me?” Armie grumbled. He grabbed the bag nevertheless and pulled on the blue jeans and white shirt. They were all a bit small on him, and be asked, ”These are Luca’s?” 

”I didn’t think anything else would fit you,” Timothée shrugged. After a silent moment, he said, ”I wasn’t bullshitting when I said that I was gonna help you get out of here.” 

”I don't know what to believe anymore, Timmy,” Armie snapped. ”You lied to me for two years, and now you’re carrying a gun.” 

”You called me Timmy,” Timothée whispered. 

Armie sighed. ”Go ahead and shoot me,” he said. ”Just end this shit already.” 

Without a moment of hesitation, Timothée raised the gun to Armie’s chest. ”It’s gonna hurt a little,” he said softly. 

”I’m getting shot in the chest point-blank, of course, it’s gonna hurt,” Armie sighed. 

Timothée held Armie’s gaze and he fired the gun. The impact knocked Armie back and he stumbled back into the wall, and he watched as Timothée shoved the gun into the waistband of his white bell bottoms. Armie looked down at his chest, ready to see the red blossoming on the white shirt, but he saw nothing. There was no bullet wound, no blood. By all evidence, Armie hadn’t been shot. 

”Blanks,” Armie realized. Timothée had a gun full of blanks. He was on his side. 

”You didn’t think I’d actually shoot you, did you?” Timothée asked with narrowed eyes. He approached Armie and threw his arms around Armie’s neck and he harshly kissed Armie’s lips. Armie curled his hands in Timothée’s hair and kissed him back. He enjoyed kissing his doll, but there was an unfamiliar taste in his mouth: coffee and cigars. Luca. 

Timothée broke the kiss and he said, ”This part is complicated. Don’t say anything, just follow my lead.” 

Timothée turned and grabbed the black bag and he withdrew another pistol. ”You’re better with guns,” he said and passed it to Armie. ”You have better aim.” 

”How many bullets?” Armie asked. 

”Five,” Timothée said. ”One was a blank, the rest of bullets.” 

Armie nodded. Five. 

”I’ll leave, then wait for me to come get you,” Timothée instructed. ”Got it?” 

Armie nodded. ”Hey, wait—” he snapped and grabbed Timothée’s arm, and he said, ”I love you. I mean it.” 

Tears brimmed in Timothée’s eyes. ”I love you back,” he said. ”I mean it too.” 

Timothée left the room and closed the door behind him. Armie waited for Timothée to reopen the door, but instead, he heard a gunshot. There was a short, clipped yell, then he heard Luca say, ”You betrayed me.” 

”Luca,” Timothée grumbled. ”Wait, calm down— Luca!” 

The gun went off again. There was a choked yell, along with the sound of somebody falling. Timothée moaned softly when his head hit the floor, and he slurred, ”I want him to be safe. He has kids!” 

”It’s been two years,” Luca said. ”Don’t you want this to be over?” 

”I can’t…” Timothée started and coughed. He looked down at his arm and saw blood. He was surprised that he wasn’t coughing up more: getting shot in the hip and the thigh took a toll. ”I can’t kill him, knowing he has kids. He’s gonna go away and he’ll be safe. No more guns, no more gangs— he’ll have a normal life.” 

Luca examined Timothée’s frantic state. ”And you want to be with him,” Luca said slowly. ”Because you love him.” 

”I do,” Timothée said firmly. He worked himself to sit up and he searched for his gun. Then, he remembered that he had given it to Armie. He was going to die. 

Luca advanced on him and took a handful of his hair, and he smacked him across the cheek. ”I put my trust in you,” Luca spat. ”I trusted you to follow through with this plan exactly the way we designed it. You betrayed me as a worker, as a lover— you don’t deserve a happy ending with him.” 

Luca aimed the gun again, and Timothée’s heart dropped. ”Luca,” he whimpered. ”Please don't shoot! I’m sorry that I betrayed you! I’ll stay with you and I’ll redeem myself. Luca, _please_!” 

Armie was frozen in fear inside the cell. He knew that Timothée was about to die but he was so paralyzed at the thought of it. His love was about to be killed. He had to do something. He threw the door open just in time for Luca to shoot Timothée in the stomach. 

Without thinking, Armie fired his gun at Luca, and he watched the bullet train in exactly on Luca’s head. The sound of cracking bone echoed throughout the hallway, and Luca fell to the floor. The gun clattered out of his hand and skittered across the floor to Armie’s feet. He was immediately disgusted with himself: he had killed someone. Selling guns never bothered him because he never saw the deaths that occurred, but shooting someone in the head at point-blank range was totally different. He had killed someone. 

Then, there was a choking sound and a gurgling. Armie looked over and saw Timothée choking on his own blood. His lower body was covered in blood, and he was shaking like he was cold. Armie dropped to the floor and held Timothée close, and he pushed his hair off of his forehead. ”Hey, it’s okay,” Armie whispered. ”Calm down. You’ll be okay, I promise.” 

Timothée grabbed Armie’s hand, and he began to cry. His mouth was spilling blood, flowing down his chin onto his neck. He coughed hard, and he said, ”Armie. I mean it. I mean it, Armie, I do.” 

”I know you do,” Armie nodded. ”Let me go find a phone and we’ll get you fixed up. Stay with me, baby. Stay with me.”


	8. Chapter 8

It was decided that it was best if Armie and Timothée cut off contact. 

The decision wasn’t made immediately. The first month after the shooting was difficult: Timothée was in the hospital for four weeks, and he was fairly unstable. He tried to joke that his amputated leg helped him lose the weight that he had put on while dating Armie. The gunshot wound in his hip and leg got infected and his hip was replaced with metal and his leg was amputated through the thigh. Armie visited him for the first few days and helped him acclimate to the new lack of a limb, but Michael told him after three days that his time with Timothée was coming to an end. Both of them were being hunted by gangs all over the country— even some Italian gangs with ties to the Guadagninos— for betraying and killing Luca. It was too risky having them in the same building together. ”It’ll only be for a few months,” Michael had promised Armie. ”Maybe a year at the most.” 

The year passed. Armie begged Liz over and over to at least be introduced to his children as their father. She was understandably hesitant, considering he had shot somebody in the head, but she finally gave in. Harper treated Armie with disdain, being wise beyond her years when she asked why it took so long for him to realize that he wanted them. Ford, on the other hand, took to Armie immediately, laughing and calling out ”Dada!” whenever he saw his father. The Christmas of 1977 came with a card— _Merry Christmas from the Hammers: Armie, Elizabeth, Harper, Ford, and Archie._ (It seemed that Armie wasn’t immune to his daughter’s pout either, and she got a dog for her sixth birthday.) 

At first, Armie called Timothée daily. They would talk for hours and the call always ended with ”I love you, I mean it”. Then, Armie got a job— a real job. He had promised Liz that he would quite the gang business for good, and he quickly found a job as a small specialist for a budding department store chain. He had to travel all over the country to help establish new branches of the store, and he always brought back trinkets for his family. The calls with Timothée became rare, but they still always ended with that holy promise. Then, one day in the July of 1978, Armie called Timothée, and he didn’t answer the phone. Armie knew why: it was two years since Luca was killed, since Timothée lost his leg, since Armie became a murderer. 

The years passed. Ford graduated preschool with aplomb, earning the ”Best Smile” award; Armie took credit for that. Harper became a part of a club at her elementary school that taught her how to use a new machine, a Xerox Alto. Liz tied up loose ends with the Stuhlbargs and opened a bakery in Los Angeles. Armie read his children stories at night, employing goofy voices that made Harper giggle. 

Throughout everything, Armie wondered about Timothée. He wondered who he was dating, how he was getting on, and if he was working. Was he still involved with gangs? Armie tried to call him every so often, but he never answered. Did Timothée still care? Did he even think about Armie anymore? Did he still mean it? Every year on December twenty-seventh, Armie went to Liz’s bakery and got a yellow cupcake with chocolate frosting; Timothée’s favorite kind of birthday cake. 

Finally, the dawn of a new decade appeared: 1980. Armie was turning thirty-four that year, Harper was eight, Ford was six, and Timothée would be twenty-five. Armie hated to admit that he had forgotten about Timothée— the past months at work had been overwhelming and Armie could barely make it through the day anymore. He became one of those fathers that smoked outside before dinner and drank while the family watched television. Armie was slowly evolving into his own father. The thought disgusted him, but he had no idea how to cope with stress. If it had been a few years earlier, he would have resigned himself to his bedroom and fucked the living daylights out of somebody, but Liz wasn’t like that anymore and wouldn’t accept that. 

With all of this combined, it was no wonder that Armie jumped at the chance to go to New York City. His company needed a representative to go up to New York and attend a week-long conference on management of international expansion, something that Armie had helped usher in. His boss gave him the opportunity and he said yes without any forethought. He thought that he could go to clubs and find somebody that was willing to be practically chained to the bed for a week. Then, he remembered: Timothée had moved back to New York City. 

Armie called Timothée that night after the kids had gone to bed. Neither Harper not Ford could remember Timothée too well or what role he played in their lives, and Armie wasn’t about to ask Timothée if he wanted to get drinks in front of his kids and wife. Liz and Armie knew that Harper and Ford were the only things keeping them from separating; Liz had grown up without a father and she didn’t want that for either of her children. They had talked about it and they decided that an open marriage was what they needed: Liz could sleep with who she wanted and Armie could do the same. Armie knew that Liz would have no problem with him meeting up with Timothée. 

The phone rang. No answer. Armie tried again; still no answer. A third time, an answer: ”The number you are trying to call seems to be disconnected. Please try again later.” 

Armie was crushed. It seemed as if that chapter of his life was officially over. Timothée, in years past, would have dropped everything to see Armie, but now it seemed as if he couldn’t care less. Armie slammed the phone back onto the wall rather harshly, and he calmly made his way upstairs. He heard Ford in the bathtub, babbling away with his action figures, and he carefully opened the cracked door. 

”Daddy!” Ford exclaimed. ”Look, Daddy, the bubbles are big today!” 

”They sure are,” Armie said softly. ”Bedtime’s in a few minutes, hon, okay?” 

”Okay,” Ford said contently. 

Armie walked numbly to the bedroom, where Liz was sitting and reading. ”Who did you call?” Liz asked. 

”Timothée,” Armie said. He slumped down onto the bed and began to undress. 

Liz smiled sadly at her husband. ”You miss him a lot, huh?” she asked. 

”Yeah,” Armie admitted. 

Liz looked down at her book, and she closed it. She got up and went to the bedside table and began to rifle through some papers. ”This came for you in the mail today,” she said. ”I didn’t open it.” 

It was an envelope addressed to Armie, written in neat, looping handwriting. Armie thought it was a woman’s handwriting at first, and then he saw that the return address was in New York. It was Timothée. 

_Dear Armie,_ the letter read. _Please understand that I’m not doing this to be mean or to hurt you. I know how much you care about me, and, God above, I care about you too. I can’t keep you on the hook forever, not letting you know why I haven’t answered your calls. I have a daughter, a beautiful girl named Amelia. She’s almost a year old. Her mother died in childbirth, and it’s been the two of us ever since._

_I ran the Guadagnino gang for a little while, but it seemed useless without Luca. Nobody respected me or even cared about me. They all hated me for betraying Luca and still inheriting the gang. I washed my hands of the entire thing when my beloved Saoirse got pregnant, and we moved to Brooklyn._

_You would have loved Saoirse. She was funny and gorgeous and I loved her with every part of me. We met innocently, at a bookstore. For a long time, I forgot about you and focused on my girlfriend. I went back to school and I’m working on getting my degree in writing. Then, Amelia happened, and Saoirse passed away. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through. I had suffered when you left, when my leg was amputated, when Luca died. But Saoirse dying broke something inside of me. I tried to kill myself. I would have succeeded too, if not for Amelia beginning to cry. I realized that I had a baby that needed me, and I couldn’t abandon her and leave her to the system._

_In saying this, I want you to know that I still love you. I’m not sure that I will ever stop loving you. If I didn’t have Amelia, I would come running to you, but that’s unfair to my daughter. She needs someone devoted to her. This will be the last letter. I will not answer any of your phone calls. I’m sorry, but it is for the best. Trust me._

_I love you. I mean it._

_Your doll, Timothèe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading free fire! it means so much that you guys liked it. peace and love

**Author's Note:**

> please leave comments and stuff. this is my first work on ao3 so yeah idk how all of this works yet. <3


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